All it is
by Foodwise
Summary: AU. One-shot. Sofia's pretty much her good old self, but Sara isn't. Also, this might lack massively in originality, but it was worth a shot... Can't always fish in the same grounds...


**CSI:LV, M, Drama/Romance, Sara Sidle/Sofia Curtis**

**Disclaimer: CSI, its characters, places, and situations are the property of Jerry Bruckheimer Television, Alliance Atlantis, and CBS Productions. This story was written for entertainment not monetary purposes. Original characters, and this story, are intellectual property of the author. Any similarities to existing characters, fictional or real, living or dead, are coincidental and no harm is intended.**

**This is an AU-fic (a girl's gotta step outside the box once in a while), but it's still pretty much just minimal plot with some smut and a side of angsty fluff. You know me... And I've obviously developed a thing for the second person narrative. Hm. Just this much, Sofia is pretty much herself, but Sara isn't. Blame it on me having spent entirely too much time watching romantic comedies. When I was younger and still believed there was a grain of truth in them. **

***coughcough*Happy Birthday, Hun!*cough***

* * *

**All it is**

You take a moment.

You always do.

It's not the first time that she's here, with you, not even the fourth or fifth - yet every time you find her like this when you return to the bedroom after finishing your nightly routines in the bathroom, you just have to take a moment.

To take in the scenery, so to speak.

It's not like your standing at the very edge of the Great Canyon or on the riverside looking up at Big Ben or something equally majestic and profound. You're just looking at a woman, perched up on some cushions in your bed, a glass of white wine in one hand and a book about - astrophysics? balancing on her blanket covered knees. Reading in faint candlelight. The pillar candle is burning down unevenly and the flame flickers, licks around, bathing your simple and - as you notice now once again - fairly practical and charmless bedroom in an eerie, unsteady glow, throwing ever-changing shadows onto the naked white walls.

You should really re-paint. Hang up some pictures. If you ever find the time.

The longer you lean in the doorframe, watching her, engrossed in her rather odd read, the more you become aware that you _are_ staring at something, _someone_ majestic and profound.

You know that she knows you're already more or less in the room, as well as she ignores you purposely, like she also knows that you need this, this routine, this way of making yourself believe that she really is here, with you, in your world, voluntarily, by staring at her like this.

"You're beautiful."

The corner of her mouth twitches upwards, even though your words came out as barely more than a tired, yet amazed breath, she heard you. But doesn't turn, she just smiles that lopsided smile you _adore_ into her book and lets you stare.

You push off the wall, but make no move to close the distance between the threshold and the bed. Like you're still afraid she's gonna vanish into thin air did you approach her.

She doesn't belong here.

You are more than sure of that, and you cannot even begin to find an explanation why she's here, _again_, instead of residing in her usual five-star suite at the MGM Grand her agent has booked for her. Sipping champagne instead of a seven dollar Chardonnay that you thought yourself was a bit chalky. Reading a science book on propped up knees, under your off-the-rack cotton sheets instead of snuggling up in silken robes on the comfiest mattress money can surely buy.

You shudder, and it's not because you're cold in your pajama shorts and tank top, but because she looks so serene, so happy, so relaxed, in your Spartan place. Like she belonged. Like she really didn't want to be anywhere else right now but here. With you.

And your heart aches at the thought.

Because you're in love. For the first time in years, you allowed yourself to fall. Without a safety net. You are sure that you are gonna hit the bottom, unprotected, and probably soon, because this is a dream, it feels like a dream, merely an episode in your life you're sure you'll regret once it's over, but you cannot deny yourself the feelings she's evoked, from so very deep inside of you.

"Sofia, don't do that."

Her warm, low voice reaches your ears and you realise you've been staring blankly ahead, without seeing a thing and now she's looking straight at you, straight through you, and again knows. About your doubts. About your fears. About everything you usually hide so well from everyone.

She looks at you with sympathetic eyes, worry dancing in the hazel.

You seek this reassurance, you crave it, even if it were lies, you need to hear it.

And she delivers, perfectly.

"I'm exactly where I want to be. I don't want to be anywhere you're not, as long as I can stay. I'll be gone soon enough. This, this feels like living, this feels real to me when usually all that surrounds me seems fake and enhanced, like looking through a magnifying glass, just seeing cuttings, never the complete picture. With you, my life is less shallow, less artificial, less fragmented. Not pressed into forms and molds into which I have to let myself be pushed every day. With you, I can be just me. Can you let me be myself and not worry when I'll take a drink from that glass vial again and become larger than you think your life is?"

You clench your jaw, hard, because you can feel the burning behind your eyes and you sure as hell don't want to cry right now. She already knows. That you're a sap, that is. That behind all that tough exterior, the shield and the gun and the tight ponytail and the boots, you're as soft a woman as they come. That she is already in there, she already took possession of you, of your fragile heart you guarded so viciously, and made it hers.

You try to react, but you stumble over the words, you're usually so eloquent and now you can barely vocalise what it is you're feeling. Because it's just too much and words don't seem to be enough. Words usually always sufficed, they come easily to you, you shape and form then into sentences that break down the toughest of suspects, that impress your colleagues, showcase your knowledge and undoubtedly highlight your superior position. Now they fail you. Completely.

"I- my life is- I don't..." And you pause and blink furiously against the tears that want to escape your sore eyes, you feel tired and yet so alive, still you just don't know what to say. With your mouth still slightly agape, you give up trying and just rub your hands over your face before your eyes find hers again.

And she makes it easy, again.

She puts the glass on the coaster on the bedside table, closes the big hardcover and just shoves it off the bed, the thump of it hitting your hardwood floors unnaturally loud in the quiet room. She sits up and leans towards you where you're still rooted to the spot, barely a foot into the room.

"Then just show me."

There's no mistaking her tone, no innocence in her request.

And you want to show her, with all you have to give, all you have kept on a leash throughout the past months, whenever you saw each other, when you kept it light and tender and simple, merely reveling in the closeness, the wonder of being with her, like she was as fragile as porcelain, like she was about to disappear beneath your hands - which you still think - and you didn't want to burden your bond with the weight and force of your passion. With everything you feel for her.

Now you feel like you're tied to a rubber band stretched so painfully long that you're going to be propelled into her arms with the momentum of a freight train if released. So you stay still a moment longer, assessing the truthfulness of her words.

She frees herself from the covers, revealing the tight sleeveless tee and simple panties as she gets up on her knees in the middle of the bed, beckoning you.

She suddenly looks so small, so normal, so utterly adorable with her tousled hair and the vulnerable look on her face that you recognise as the same that's played on your own features. Open, yet taxing.

Her voice is a little shaky now as she speaks, more in hope as in surety.

"I want the same you want. Please, Sofia, show us were not mistaken."

And the band snaps and you rush forward, long fast strides and you're on the bed, grabbing the side of her face, your fingers curling into her hair at the base of her skull, strong, sure, possessive, trusting.

Her gasp of surprise and elation gets swallowed by your hard kiss, you're on her, crushing her into your body, your arm wound around her small waist, you let the last remnant of doubt slip from your mind, at least for now, at least for the next couple of hours, this night.

She reciprocates the kiss in kind, challenging you, her tongue just as eagerly exploring as your own, her fingers digging into the muscles of your back, you can feel her nails through your thin top as she drags them towards your spine and you reward the unexpected roughness with a hoarse, breathy moan into her mouth, elated that you seem to be on the same wavelength with this, too.

You momentarily wonder who'll be doing the taking, you or her, but dismiss the thought as quickly as it came, because it doesn't matter, you'll gladly be in both positions, with her, you can take charge or you can surrender, and neither will feel wrong or not fitting.

But the immediate decision is taken out of your hands as she holds on to you tightly and lets herself fall back into the cushions, dragging you down with her, on top of her, and her legs wind around the back of your thighs, pinning you to her.

Braced on just one arm, your other hand still stroking the side of her face, you look down and what you see when you break the kiss takes your breath away once more. Her eyes reflect your own feelings perfectly, and you know you don't need to say it anymore, it's already understood, it is already a fact neither of you could deny anymore, even if you tried.

And she smirks, irresistibly, closing those telling eyes and arches into you, grinds into you, small breasts meeting your fuller ones, rolling hips and clenching stomach muscles, her hands sneaking under the hem of your shirt and again nails scratch slowly down your back and you feel your eyes roll back in your head and the heat spread uncontrollably, its center not between your legs, but higher and more to the left, a want tangled with love, you know that now as you push her back down and establish the position she put you in. And you feel comfortable in your skin. You feel sure and confident as you rip the tank top over your head and simultaneously resume the slight grinding motion she initiated, now fully straddling her.

But you don't remain there, don't allow more intimate contact, you slide down her legs, her gaze following your hands as they slowly lift her shirt, barely touching her skin at all until they brush over erect nipples, still deliberately light, but she trembles and her eyes fly shut again while you divest her of the tee.

You absolutely love that you're able to do this. That each of your well-directed and too quick for her taste touches send her spinning, moaning and twitching. You're everywhere and nowhere at once, and you chuckle before you bend down to kiss her too chastely, but the sound gets stuck in your throat as her hands grab your head almost painfully and she gazes up at you with fire dancing in her eyes.

"Don't be such a fucking tease, not right now!"

You shriek as her head surges up and she kisses you, devours you like no one ever has and you're mesmerised by her strength, by the scrape on your scalp, by that thing she does with her tongue that translates directly to a very different area of your body as you gasp and groan into an open mouth.

She breaks the kiss prematurely and pushes your head lower, with unbridled intent behind her directional _suggestion_ and you hover over her breast, catching her gaze one more time before you latch on to the peak, lavishing it with your tongue, then suckling, biting as she holds you to herself, moaning loudly. Your hands come up to press those two delicious mounds together as close as it gets, pinching one nipple between your thumb and forefinger while still gently biting the other and she bucks, her hips thrusting up, searching blindly for some contact, for relief which you don't feel inclined to offer up just yet.

You want this, just like she said, you want what she wants, but you also love the exchange of power. You want to be directed, pushed, you want the hand in your hair and the bite in your scalp as she pulls savagely and growls those words of want, the plea uttered aggressively, not in begging, for you to move lower. You release the nipple that must be pleasurably aching by now with a wet plop and breathlessly stare at her. Then you bunch the small piece of fabric at the front of her panties in your hand and yank hard, ripping the flimsy strips at the side and her breathe hitches along with yours while the corners of her mouth quirk upward in delight before her lips form an aghast 'oh' as you hold on to her underwear while you cover her with the whole length of your body, pushing your own shorts down quickly and off your legs to have the contact complete, and leaning on your elbows, you bring the moist fabric up to your nose and breathe her lingering scent in.

You don't know what made you do that, but the befuddled and utterly aroused look on her face is reward enough for giving in to that kind of spontaneity, and using that moment of distraction, you slide lower and gently bite down at the junction of her thigh, taking her completely by surprise and stealing a long, trembling groan from her lungs.

"So-fia..." Comes in a rattling attempt to breathe in again for what's to come.

"Shhh!" You whisper and throw her left leg over your shoulder while she starts shaking in anticipation.

The mouthed 'Please' tugs at your last reserve, the last bit of your sanity you still wanted to keep protected, but you can't, and as your fingers slowly glide through wetness in abundance you know that you've reached the point of no return.

It hurts, exquisitely so, as you taste her for the very first time, as you bury three fingers knuckle deep within her, shattering her beneath you, make her crumble to pieces with nothing more but your hands and your tongue and this utterance of your love.

She yells out as she comes, much too fast for your liking, you could have gone on for hours in this place, but so hard that she almost drowns you and you laugh as you wipe a wet hand across an even wetter mouth and chin, and crawl up, collapsing grinning like a stupid fool by her side, your hand on her chest, feeling the heaving under your palm, her attempt to gain control of her breathing again. and you bury your face in her neck and kiss her throat, her jaw and up to her dry and chapped lips, sharing that blissful taste in a long, lazy kiss.

Not much later, you're on top of her again, but this time it's you who can barely breathe, those long and agile fingers manipulating you, thrusting up when you push down, deeper even now you're leaning forward, searching for her mouth, and she's smiling into the kiss because you just provided her with the perfect angle to make you scream, which was her intention all along. But she doesn't push you over just yet. Instead she drags you up and though you're looking at her a bit frightened, yet you can't not give in to straddling her face. She changes between rough and almost too gentle so flawlessly that you begin to see little white shapes dance behind your closed eyelids, you wait for the scraping of teeth that send you reeling but instead get the softest caress of a flattened tongue, and you tremble and pant, holding on to the headboard in a vice-like grip until she flips you to the side, and suddenly having you on your back, drives into you without restraint, adding leverage to her thrusts with her thigh behind her hand and you just gasp, your hands reaching out for her, one finding purchase in her long hair, the other at her shoulder. And you hold on, until you fly apart.

As she carefully settles down half on top of you and wants to withdraw her hand, you rest yours above hers and stop her.

"Don't. Please, please don't. Just kiss me."

And she does, her lips ghosting over yours, tongue darting out to taste, then firmer, closer, her teeth catching your lower lip, then she's gone again before kissing you fuller, covering every last millimeter of your parted lips.

Her kiss is like a small stream, meandering, jumping over stones, sliding around corners, gliding over flattened sides, caressing the stems of bamboo growing in the riverbed, building up as it rushes towards the sea, thundering down lopes with increased strength and speed until the big fall ends the journey, and sweet and salty tangle for good.

You're so invested that you barely register that she's begun to move inside you again. With purpose, slowly, but effectively. You rock into the motion, the steady and pointed movement over that perfect spot makes you feel everything tenfold. Oh God, and she knows what she's doing. She's breaking the kiss and stares at you, her brows furrowed in concentration and awe as she makes you take the fall, watches you being washed over the edge into the blustering waves beneath. You try to hold her gaze as you come with an almost soundless cry, the vein in your neck bulging at the intensity, your eyes tearing up at the intimacy of it.

"I would stay. I would love nothing more than just to stay here. With you, for good."

She mutters those words onto your lips as she closes her eyes, but only when the last waves shaking you have subsided she finally withdraws and reaching for the blanket she covers the two of you as your limbs entwine and you curl up into her, still shaking and overwhelmed, both physically and emotionally.

* * *

You see her picture in the paper. She looks so different, with all the make-up and wearing one of those fancy gowns whose designer's name you can't even pronounce correctly, but you know the woman beneath all that glamour. She's surrounded by fans, swarming all around her like bees, but she smiles into the camera, smiles right out of the picture and you know that smile and you wonder if she thought of you, because that is your smile. The one she gave you when she left. The one she smiled before she ducked into the dark limousine with the blackened out windows that'd take her back into this other world, the world into which you cannot follow her, the world of bodyguards and flashlights, red carpets and press conferences.

It's been nine weeks and you miss her like crazy.

She texts you.

She calls you, late at night, from some hotel suite in some city.

London.

Los Angeles.

New York.

Madrid.

Some sunny little island off the coast of France.

You never had phone sex before. At first you were shy, barely getting all the words out of all the things you'd do to her, if only she was there with you. Now you come harder at her voice through the speaker than you ever thought possible.

* * *

Another five weeks.

You start becoming restless, spending too much time at work, because you feel lonely all alone at home. Because your cell chose to stay quiet for too long now. Your inbox too empty.

You throw the next morning's paper into the trash, furious, she's in the entertainment section, clinging to the arm of some other male celebrity, she looks tipsy, she looks too happy. It looks too real.

You want to cry. But you knew this would happen. It was too good to be true, from the very first time you met, it was a story that cute little fairytales are made of. You're not the type to live a fairytale. You weren't even the child that believed in any of them, ever. And you sure don't need to be treated like that. You deserve better.

Not those empty promises, not those lies uttered in the dark of night, after making love for hours, when everything feels like it was gonna last.

It's like being told 'I love you' in the throes of orgasm. It just never is real. It only becomes real when those words are spoken, without thought, just naturally, whilst ironing a shirt or between hastily sipping coffee and skimming through the weather or stock market sections in the paper paper on a busy Tuesday morning. When the one saying them is just as surprised by their sudden appearance as the one who's on the receiving end of that declaration.

What did you expect.

Your very own 'Notting Hill'?

You snort at the notion. You never even liked Hugh Grant. Though Julia Roberts... different story.

* * *

Her apologies feel rushed, and they feel fake. You don't answer to the mail. She didn't even told you where she was at. None of the familiarity you shared even when she was away for weeks before that last time she stayed with you you can derive out of her short sentences and whiny explanations for the lack of contact lately.

Busy.

Shooting at remote locations.

Agents forcing her to focus on her career.

She's getting older.

How many chances for a leading part will she get, once she's closing in to the threshold that is the age of forty in her kind of business.

She denied having plastic surgery.

That gives you pause. That is something she would have talked to you about, before. Rolling her eyes and pinching her own cheeks, rubbing at the first hints of crow's feet at the corners of her eyes, saying she looks just fine as is. Of course she does. She might just be the most beautiful woman you've ever met.

Still, you don't answer.

The next text, two days later, is more like her.

And again you feel like crying. Because you're not sure anymore if your anger is really justified.

'I know you're mad at me. And I'm sorry I left you hanging so long, thinking god knows what. But I worry, too, Sofia. It's your job. For all I know you could have been shot at or lying in the hospital beat up by some perp you chased. Please, let me know you're okay. I need to know. Love, Sara'

And you do answer.

'I'm fine. Not even stitches during the past weeks. Where are you? And you're right, I am mad.'

'Thank God you're okay. I'm home, finally. LA got me back. Rest of the shoot's at the studio. Thank you for getting back to me. Be mad, you have every right. I want to explain, but I'd rather do that in person. Nothing's changed, you gotta believe me.'

You want to believe her and you burn to hear what it is she only wants to tell you in person. But sometimes you're just too stubborn for your own good, and you chose not to answer again.

* * *

Until there's an envelope in your mail. First class plane tickets to LA and back three days later. A VIP ticket to the premiere of some movie she got the female lead in. The one she shot when you met. Partly on occasion in Vegas. It's in three weeks. She planned in enough time for you to make a request for a couple of days off. It's short notice, but not too short.

Despite yourself, you're boarding the plane. Your hearts already dropped into your pants a week or so earlier. You can't wait to see her again. You wanna know how she lives, how it is to go out for rolls in the morning with cameras following your every step, you wanna see yourself how she handles herself in that other world. You only caught a glimpse, now almost a year ago.

You get picked up at LAX by a studio driver. He's adamant to carry your small trolley, that has wheels, as you try telling him not once, but three times, yet he still carries it. He maneuvers you through the dense morning traffic, out of the city, a little closer to the sea. She told you she was a bay girl, from some small town close to San Francisco originally. You could have guessed she'd live at the seaside.

The house looks new and modern, though not overly fancy. There's a dog running around the yard, and he barks loudly as you approach the from door, having begged the driver to just drop you off and not announce your arrival. There's quick footsteps on the gravel of the path that leads around the house, and when she cuts around the corner, admonishing 'Castor' for his inappropriate loudness, all your plans of staying strong and confronting her fall off you like the handle of the suitcase slips from your grasp.

She's wearing khaki shorts and a flowing white blouse, sleeves rolled up, and a light brown tank top underneath. Barefoot. Leather strings wound around her wrist, her hair flowing in the midday breeze. You're mesmerised. This is the woman you fell in love with.

Still you hesitate as she sees you and her steps falter. You've been thinking about this. You never talked about it. She's not out. You can't just run up to her and kiss her like you really, really want to. Because you see it in her eyes, now that she's noticed you, that none of your worries applied. They light up, instantly, they brim with unshed tears as she moves closer. You think of paparazzi, of pictures of the two of you in tomorrow's paper, in People, in ET. You can see the headlines clear as day. 'Beloved movie star in lesbians with LVPD homicide Detective' or something similar to that.

She's mere feet away from you and you raise your hands in defense.

"Don't hug me. Just keep smiling at me like that and let's hook arms or something. Everything else can wait until we're inside. We're in plain sight. I don't wanna ruin anything for you."

At first she looks taken aback and the wide smile starts fading, but then your words really sink in and she does just as she's told. Letting you take the lead when it's actually her world you're taking your first insecure steps into.

Barely inside, kicking the door shut with your heel, her hands are on your face and she kisses you, like a starving woman, like a woman possessed.

"I missed you." Another kiss. "I'm so sorry I made you doubt me." More kisses. "I don't care what they write, by tonight everyone will know, I've had it up to wherever being bossed around by those bigots." A deeper kiss and that thing with her tongue... You groan in joy, but then pull back with a start.

"What? What did you just say? What will they know tonight? What have you been planning and when did you plan on telling _me_? What about my job, my reputation? You know it will make national news? Out celebrities always do. Do you think I wanna see my face on the nine-o'clock news?"

You take a step back and shake your hand in confusion.

"You're too smart to not have thought about that. I didn't take you for someone you just thought about themselves. I know we never voiced any kind of commitment to the other, we clearly didn't, but you can't _use_ me to come out of the closet. Just - schedule a press conference or something."

Her face fell. Apology already written squarely across her face as she reaches out of your hand, and you allow it be taken and squeezed tightly.

"I'm sorry... That's what I meant when I said I needed to talk to you. It just came out all wrong and jumbled, I am just so happy to see you again. No, I'm not just happy. I feel complete again."

You almost choke on your next breath and cough uncontrollably. She pats your back softly as you double over, trying to force some air back into your screaming lungs.

Collected again, your eyes scan the bright open room and you detect the couch, dragging her towards it.

"Yeah, I think we really need to talk. Because I don't play games of push and pull. I don't like being left in limbo for weeks, and once we are in contact again after I didn't even know there was any kind of 'us' left anymore, you drop a bomb like this one on me? Cut me some slack! Give me some time to process all of this, okay?"

She just smiles and pulls your hand up to her mouth, kissing the back gently.

"You know, I had some time to think about some things when we were shooting in that godforsaken place. It was wrong to not contact you, but I needed that you-free time to get some things sorted out in my head. The last time I was in Vegas, something changed. I now you felt it, too."

You nod slowly, understanding warmth in your eyes, but resentment still tugging at your sleeve. A bit. You shake it off.

"I love you."

You don't choke. You don't hold your breath. You don't think that you've been waiting all your life for someone to say these words to you, and mean them. Though you might have. You just kiss her. Because yeah, you know what she means, exactly, and you'd be damned if you don't feel the same.

"But how in the world is this ever going to work out? You and me... we're- our worlds don't overlap that much. How could we ever find a way to really be-" You whisper the last word, because you really don't think it's possible. At all. "Together?"

* * *

**Please don't throw things at me for the open ending. Or the blatantly obvious borrowings. Or the sappiness. It's November, okay? Foggy, constantly wet, cold, grey, bleary November... Until I find someone's hand pressed to my chest and the warmth seeps in, I'm gonna stay just a little gloomy...  
**

**No, I'm not going to continue this, it is a one shot and it ends exactly where it should.**

**Title inspired by the beautiful song 'All it is' by Kathryn Calder.**


End file.
